


Entropy

by TheWasAndShouldBeKing



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Bit of Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 10:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12010449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWasAndShouldBeKing/pseuds/TheWasAndShouldBeKing
Summary: Though the firelight that plays over the smooth planes of Jake's face is bright and warm, none of that seems to touch his cold expression. It makes Dwight's spine shiver again. Makes him want to shift away from his companion, which is not the normal impulse for the pack-oriented, team player, especially considering his particular fondness for Jake. Dwight can't help it though. The scene from earlier that night keeps playing through his mind, as they fought to escape the Ironworks...





	Entropy

 

 

The air around the campfire hangs oppressively silent, nothing but the eternal crackle and occasional pop of inexhaustible, immolating wood conversing with itself. The survivors sit ringed about it, still, but listless in their own skins. Itching for action, yearning for rest. All of it futile.

Meg has sprawled and cocked her runner's limbs haphazardly, idly braiding her dusty, ginger hair. Claudette has crossed her legs and draped her arms across her knees, and for a while she seemed focused, pensive. Now her chin keeps sinking slowly toward her chest, only for her head to bob back up a moment later, exhaustion and anxiety fighting a war of attrition. 

Dwight has folded around himself, legs drawn up and arms crossed around them, his face half hidden behind his knees. His gaze is fixed on a spot in the embers, but that isn't where he's really looking. The unknown spans of time they've all spent in this nightmare hellscape, and the means by which they've survived in it (whether or not one could call it 'surviving' is unnervingly up for debate), have developed his peripheral vision, keenly. Though his line of sight seems to stare blankly forward, Dwight has fixed his whole attention at the left edge of his glasses' lens, on Jake.

The saboteur also looks to have his eyes on the flames, but his own grim stare could easily be the same sort of feint. Though the light that plays over the smooth planes of Jake's face is bright and warm, none of that seems to touch his cold expression. It makes Dwight's spine shiver again. Makes him want to shift away from his companion, which is not the normal impulse for the pack-oriented, team player, especially considering his particular fondness for Jake. 

Dwight can't help it though. The scene from earlier that night keeps playing through his mind, as they fought to escape the Ironworks...

Dwight had been repairing a generator with Meg, trying to get the rusted, broken down hunk of machinery up and running again so they could get the hell out of there and back to the safety of the campfire. God knew where Claudette had been chased off to, but Jake wasn't far away from them, messing with one of the vile hooks, trying to bring it down. 

This was their last genny. It would have gone faster with Jake on it with them, but it wouldn't do to have such a convenient hanger there for the killer to make use of. The further they had to be dragged off, the better their chances of getting away. Jake had managed to scrounge up a tool box early on, and made short work of the hook's mounting, but sure enough, the heavy clunk of falling iron caught the attention, and the ire, of the murderous fiend that hunted them. 

With little more warning than that, the hulking shape of the Trapper barreled through, swinging his blade toward the first startled figure to catch his eye, scattering them all like roaches in the light. Dwight felt the hot sting of razor sharp metal across his back and the surge of panic as he thought he might go face down from the force of the blow alone, but a moment later the heavy, pounding sounds of pursuit had vanished. 

Perhaps one of his companions blundered into one of the insidious bear traps that littered this place, distracting the Trapper with more vulnerable prey. Perhaps he'd elected to focus on the culprit wrecking his shit. Dwight tried not to think about it too hard, lest guilt turn him back. He was in no condition to be helpful to anyone. Until he could staunch this bleeding, he'd only be a liability.

Eventually he found a mangled pile of machinery to lean against and bandage himself. He'd ended up circling around some how, not far off from the same half-repaired generator. With it coughing sickly along, he almost missed the sound of approaching boot falls. Panic sizzled through his nerves like electricity, and with blood still oozing into his shirt, he made the snap decision not to run, but to hide. With his heart hammering in his throat and in the ragged, open wound, he slipped inside the nearby locker, hoping against hope that the Trapper would simply pass him by.

Seconds crawled by like years in the close, confined darkness. The sounds of movement outside the locker passed back and forth, so much more sinister than the high school bullies he used to hide from in this same way. Being found back then meant an ass kicking, or a swirly. Being found now-

Dwight stifled a scream as the locker door flew open, arms lifting in a futile defensive posture, as they'd do nothing at all to stop even a makeshift cleaver, nor the vice-like grasp of the Trapper's massive hands. This had become an all-too familiar horror for Dwight, that still somehow never failed to instill sheer terror.

What he saw framed in the locker door made Dwight's blood run cold.

Jake. Not the Trapper, Jake. But there was something about his face, something in the way the sickly moonlight glinted in his black eyes. The way he looked at Dwight, otherwise barely illuminated, Jake seemed to loom so much larger as his shadow fell across the former supervisor's hunched frame. In that moment Dwight had fully expected to feel one of those capable, gloved hands close tight around his throat, and drag him forward just the same.

Then the generator behind them popped. Bright light flooded over Jake, and his head jerked to the side, the icy glare retreating to somewhere deeper inside. The low wail of the klaxon blared out as well, signaling their eminent (potential) escape, and a moment after Claudette appeared, waving them both away from the newly finished generator, toward the gates to (questionable) freedom.

Jake glanced back at Dwight for only a brief moment before following Claudette, and though not so cold now, his expression didn't shown any of the elation or relief that it once had, whenever reprieve, if not true deliverance, was close at hand.

Dwight has to admit, he's starting to feel worn down, too. They all made it out alive, this time, but they aren't always so lucky. Sometimes only one or two of them manage to stumble out of those gates and back to the campfire, blood pooling in their shoes, and guilt in their stomachs. Sometimes none of them make it back at all.

No one can remember what happens, when they die. The last thing any of them can ever report is the seasick sensation of weightlessness, floating upward into a swirling dark and latticework of arachnoid appendages. The soul-numbing dread of approaching the Entity, as they've taken to calling it. 

The next memory is inevitably waking in the cold, grey twilight that is the closest thing this place comes to 'day', as though whatever malevolent intelligence has designed these realms means to dangle the hope of dawn just out of reach, before plunging them all back into midnight dark.

Dwight tries not to keep score. A while ago, when they were all more talkative, and tried to be strategic, pragmatic, they all agreed it was better not to. None of them wants to count the number of times they've died. None of them wants to dwell on how often they've lived, when others have not. 

Sure, you try to save your friends whenever you can, right? But sometimes the monsters pitted against them decide to be stubborn, or spiteful. Sometimes, if they get away too often, or do something particularly vexing, one of the sadistic beasts will leave off the grand chase, just stand around and watch someone die. They fend off all would-be rescuers, and stare their victim down until the inevitable impaling on the claws of the Entity.

Nothing the survivors do seems to gain them any ground. They'll figure out a clever trick, or practice alone means they just get good at some aspect of surviving, and their tormentors will do the same. Opposing forces working against each other in equal measure. But what about entropy...?

Watching Jake watching the fire, Dwight reflects once more on that moment at the supply locker, and feels again a niggling suspicion, a growing fear. Jake has been taking a lot of hits, lately. Dwight tries not to keep score, but there have just been too many nights with only two or three of them around the fire, with Jake not among them. 

The Beasts don't appreciate having their hooks torn down, for one. And Jake has been taking more risks to make sure everyone else gets out. More than once he's flat out lied about his condition when going in for a team rescue. They'll get their companion down from the meat hook, safely, just in time to see Jake snatched up and impaled in their place, beyond all hope of rescue himself.

_Just what exactly happens to us, to Jake, up there with that_ thing _?_

Dwight shivers at the thought, frightened of, and thankful for, his lack of memories. 

Gradually, he uncurls, moving to stand with the deliberation they all use around the campfire. This is the only place they have to rest. They avoid startling one another as best they can.

Jake still looks plenty surprised when Dwight settles back down right next to him, leaning into the saboteur's shoulder and resting his chin against Jake's firm upper arm.

"You keeping score...?" It's a hard thing to ask, and not exactly the right question. Dwight isn't fond of conflict. He'd much rather just hope bad things will blow over, but they can't afford to hold grudges. Can't afford divisions in their tiny company. But his concern for Jake goes deeper than that. That look in his eyes had been more than mere frustration. Still, Dwight struggles with articulating it properly, so he leads with this.

"I can't believe you were skulking in one of those goddamn lockers, again," Jake growls the accusation softly, naked irritation in the terse words. He's eschewing the issue, too.

Dwight still winces, shame heating his face briefly. He's worked hard not to rely on the childish, cowardly tactic. To think faster, and only opt for cover when it's a truly strategic move. They all have to rely on each other, after all. Weakest link and all that. But honestly he'd dredged up most of his courage to impress Jake. Disappointing him feels miserable, and Dwight just takes the verbal punch, rather than going on the defensive.

"I know. I'm sorry..." He decides to use the apology to nudge things in the proper direction. "Things haven't been going too swell, lately, huh? I guess... I guess I let it get to me."

Jake shifts slightly, not pulling away exactly, but there's something guilty in his restlessness. Dwight can see it in the way he wrings his hands, the stony survivalist not prone to fidget. 

Dwight takes it upon himself to reach out and peel Jake's gloves away, folding them neatly onto his lap. He wraps his own hands around Jake's then, guiding their palms toward the warmth of the campfire. 

Across the pit, Meg smiles softly, and perhaps taking it as a cue, leaves off her braid to wrap an arm around Claudette. The botanist scoots closer without more prompting, folding herself against Meg. Leaning into that support, she finally stops nodding and just drifts off to sleep. The runner pillows her cheek on Claudette's hair in turn, eyes closing to cat nap.

Still held in Dwight's hands, Jake's begin to shake. He looks up to find the stoic woodsman fighting back tears, and while it's clear Jake is upset, it brings a smile of relief to Dwight's face. Surely if Jake can still cry, then hope isn't lost yet.

Dwight laces their fingers in one hand, and lifts his other to cradle Jake's cheek, bringing their foreheads close together. "It's okay... You don't have to do this alone."

"Teamwork and trust falls?" Jake's tease is halfhearted, his whisper hoarse and breath sniffling. It has been a long time since anyone has bothered to poke fun at Dwight's yuppie means of getting lost in this hellish place.

"Something like that," and he quips in turn, "mountain man."

Jake barks a quiet laugh, and wet warmth rolls over Dwight's fingers. He tilts his head to kiss the tear tracks away, shifting to wrap his arms tightly around Jake, as he feels the lanky young man crumble into him. 

"We're gonna get out of here," Dwight murmurs confidently, echoing sentiments that the more capable survivor used on the nervous office worker, once upon a time. "I know it doesn't seem like it now. I know we've been here a long time. But we're gonna get out of here. We've learned how to play Its game. We know the rules."

Dwight gazes off into the lightening mists, over the ebony fluff of Jake's head. "...now we just have to figure out how to break 'em."

 


End file.
